


The hell we carry inside us

by Nary



Category: Marianne (TV 2019)
Genre: Creepy, Developing Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, Fingerfucking, Horror, Kissing, Mild Blood, Post-Season/Series 01, Pregnancy, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: "I'll sleep on the couch, it's no problem," Emma said on the first night they were in her apartment together.  Pierre had moved out, and it had made sense for Camille to move in, since they both needed time and a quiet place to recuperate."The floor is good enough for me," Camille protested weakly."Fine, you sleep on the floor and I'll sleep on the couch, and no one will use the bed," Emma replied with a flash of her former cheeky grin.  It felt forced, though.  "Why should we both suffer? The bed is big enough for two."
Relationships: Camille/Emma Larsimon
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The hell we carry inside us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesunsaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunsaid/gifts).



"I'll sleep on the couch, it's no problem," Emma said on the first night they were in her apartment together. Pierre had moved out, and it had made sense for Camille to move in, since they both needed time and a quiet place to recuperate.

"The floor is good enough for me," Camille protested weakly.

"Fine, you sleep on the floor and I'll sleep on the couch, and no one will use the bed," Emma replied with a flash of her former cheeky grin. It felt forced, though. "Why should we both suffer? The bed is big enough for two."

Camille still looked uncertain. "I don't want to impose..."

"You're not," Emma told her firmly. "Neither of us want to be alone right now, yeah? So we share the bed."

So they lay there, back to back, in silence. Emma knew she needed to sleep, but her mind was still swimming in a sea of trauma, after all that had happened. She knew that as soon as she managed to drift off, the nightmares would come. All that they had been through went unspoken between them, as though saying anything out loud would bring it all flooding back. Eventually, Emma heard Camille's breathing soften, and knew she must be asleep. She envied her that peaceful rest, just a little bit, even though she knew that Camille no doubt had her own demons to struggle with. She closed her eyes, listening to Camille's gentle respiration.

_Emma stood on the shore. The water was rough, churned up and choppy as if a storm was coming - or had just passed. All the debris that had been hidden at the bottom was being turned over and dragged to the shore, seaweed wrack and waterlogged wood and the remains of shipwrecks from a hundred years ago. In the midst of the wreckage was an open chest, such as might hold a pirate's treasure, and coming from the chest she heard a cry that pierced above the waves and wind. A baby's cry._

_She waded into the water, knee-deep, then up to her thighs, trying to reach the box that held the infant, but the waves kept pulling it just out of her reach. The cries rose in pitch, becoming screams of distress, and she could see that the ocean water was spilling over the side of the container, filling it slowly until it was sure to be dragged down. She tried to move faster, hoping she could reach the child in time, but the sand and seaweed clung to her legs and slowed her progress._

_Finally her hand closed over the edge of the chest and she was able to drag it close to her body, heavy and awkward as it was. She tilted it to look inside and saw, instead of a crying baby, Marianne's distorted face gazing up at her, as if from the depths of a grave. A hand shot out and grasped her wrist, and she couldn't pull away..._

Emma woke to Camille shaking her. "You were talking in your sleep," she said. Emma rolled to face her, still gasping for breath and trembling. Without her glasses, she looked less severe, softer, more concerned. Emma slid into her arms without thinking twice. "Oh," Camille murmured, surprised, but she didn't draw away. "I'm here," she said, stroking Emma's sweat-damp hair. "You're safe."

Emma didn't think that was true, but it felt good to hear it. "Sorry I woke you up, Cam-cam," she mumbled into Camille's too-big pyjama top. 

"I couldn't sleep anyway," Camille told her. "The wind kept me awake."

"There's no wind," Emma said. They both fell silent, listening. It was true - the air was still, and even the sounds of Paris traffic and pedestrians were quiet at this hour of night. There was nothing to hear aside from their own breath.

* * *

When Emma rose out of bed, groggy and feeling sick to her stomach, Camille had already been up for some time, and was just coming back from the store. "I got some breakfast," she said, setting down the bag on the counter. "Your fridge only had a bottle of vodka in it."

"That's a sort of breakfast," Emma replied, stretching.

"Not a good one," Camille said, with some hint of her old sternness. "I bought croissants and butter and jam, a pot of yogurt, some raspberries, and some tea. I'll make the food. You go have a shower."

"Yes ma'am." Emma did as she was told, and even though she had to pause on the way to the tub to throw up, she had to admit that she felt a little more human once she was clean. The smell of the warm pastry was almost appetizing. She took a first cautious bite, and then the second one was easier, and by the third she was devouring everything in front of her, as though she had been starving for weeks.

In contrast, Camille picked at her food, eating a few berries and nibbling at a plain croissant. 

"You aren't hungry?" Emma asked. "You need to eat too."

"I'm fine," Camille said. "I had one while you were in the shower."

Emma was pretty sure that was a lie, but she didn't press her friend on the matter. Instead she sipped the tea, making a face at its bitter taste. "Next time, get coffee," she said. 

"I'm not your maid," Camille snapped back. "If you want coffee, you can go get it yourself." She rose from the table with a sharp push, walked to the bedroom doorway and stood there looking around like she wanted to escape, but had nowhere to go. Emma called her name, but Camille just shut the door behind her.

"It's my fucking bedroom!" Emma shouted. No answer came from the other side.

* * *

Emma waited a few hours, thinking maybe Camille would calm down. She sat on the couch with her laptop and tried to write, to wait out the argument like she always did, but every word that she put on the screen felt like the wrong one. _All your talent came from Marianne,_ a voice whispered to her. _Without her, you're nothing._

"Shut up," Emma muttered out loud. She remembered the vodka in the fridge, which sounded awfully tempting, but she was drinking for two now and was trying to be more restrained. Although the booze would probably be the least of this kid's problems...

Instead she dragged herself to her feet and walked to the bedroom door. She knocked on it. "Cam-cam? Are you awake?" It was only early afternoon, but maybe she was having a nap. It wasn't like either of them had slept well the night before.

When there was no response, she knocked again, louder. "Come on, don't be like this. I know I was an asshole." A long pause. "I'm sorry," Emma added. The words didn't come out easily, rusty from long disuse, but she knew how much she owed to Camille. An apology wouldn't even begin to scratch the surface.

There was another lengthy silence. "Fine. When you're ready to talk, we'll talk." Emma was just about to go back to the couch and try once again to write when the quiet was broken with a scream. She had the door open and was inside the room in an instant, heart in her throat and the first weapon she could grab, an empty bottle that hadn't yet been taken out with the recycling, in her hand. She half-expected to see Marianne standing there, or something even worse, but instead she just saw Camille sitting up in bed, her face a mask of panic, her hands scrabbling at the bedsheets, at empty air or at something Emma couldn't see.

Emma dropped the bottle, ignoring the glass that shattered on the ground, and ran the few steps to the bed, climbing onto it and pulling Camille close. "It's okay," she told her, "you're safe, I've got you." It might not have been true, but she knew it was what needed to be said in that moment. Camille stiffened and tried to pull away for a moment, then seemed to realize who was talking to her. She looked up at Emma, blinking back tears, and buried her face in her shoulder to sob.

"I was back there," she mumbled once she'd calmed down a little. "With her."

Camille didn't need to explain more - Emma knew exactly where, and who, she meant. "You're not there anymore, though. You're with me," she said. Then, because it felt right, she tilted Camille's face up and kissed her tear-wet lips. Camille gave a soft sigh and returned the kiss, which was good, because it would have been hard to get out of the situation gracefully if it had been a mistake.

"Lie down and rest with me," Camille suggested eventually. "You must be tired too."

Emma nodded. "And look, I very cleverly booby-trapped the doorway, so no one can get to us," she added with a smile. They would have to clean it up later, of course, but for now, the glass-covered floor was oddly comforting. 

They curled up together under the blankets. A wan and watery light streamed through the window, and the room was warm, but it felt better to be under the covers, not exposed. Emma stroked Camille's long, fine hair, then moved to kissing her neck, down to her collarbone, tugging her shirt out of the way. She wasn't wearing a bra, and it was easy for Emma to slide a hand up beneath her loose shirt, to cup one soft, rounded breast and tease her nipple with her thumb. Camille moaned under her breath, nuzzling against Emma's cheek, and clasped her legs around Emma's thigh. She was only wearing thin cotton underpants, and as she ground herself against her, Emma could feel how wet she was as the fabric quickly soaked through. She reached down, tugging the panties to one side, and found Camille's pussy drenched and eager for her touch. It took only a few short strokes before she was coming, a quick, hard burst that left her shivering. 

"Now rest," Emma said. She could have gone for an orgasm herself, but she didn't want to insist Camille give her one, and masturbation seemed rude. There would be a chance for that later, she thought, giving Camille a kiss on the forehead. They settled in to try and make up for some of the sleep they had lost the night before.

_Emma was on the shore again, she could tell by the salt smell and the sound of lapping water. The lighthouse beam cut its way through the fog. In the distance, she heard footsteps, unsteady, dragging ones, growing steadily closer. "Who's there?" she called, trying to make out anything in the grey world around her._

_"It's me," came a voice, "Camille." But it didn't sound right. There was something wet about it, something that oozed filth and decay._

_"Camille?" Emma was wary, but couldn't help calling back to her._

_"I'm here," the voice replied, closer this time. "I've been to the city, Emma. It's so beautiful there. So bright... You can come there with me."_

_"Come back!" Emma cried out. "I'm here, follow my voice, just come back to me!"_

_She stretched her arms out, reaching through the fog, trying to grab onto something solid. She stumbled and her hands made contact with a body, the wet, moldering fabric of a burial gown long underground, and she pulled it closer to her. Part of her fully expected it to be Marianne, for it all to be a trick, but it was Camille, her face half-covered in a sodden burlap mask marked with a crude cross. Emma pulled it off her frantically, wiping back the damp strands of hair that clung to her brow, seeing with horror how pale her skin was, how cold..._

_Camille opened her eyes, but they were clouded and grey, staring back at her with a hollow, dead gaze. "Hell is near the ocean," Camille said in a drowned woman's voice, salt water tinted with blood bubbling from her lips, and Emma screamed because it was too late, she hadn't been able to save her after all..._

When she jolted awake it was dusk, the sunlight faded red and the street lamps coming on. It was never fully dark here, not the way it could get in Elden, but still, Emma needed more light. She flung her arm out, misjudging where the reading lamp was, and knocked it off onto the floor with a crash. Angry with herself, she swung her legs out of bed and stood to walk to the light switch, remembering too late that she'd shattered a bottle on the floor. "Fuck!" She smacked the light switch on and hopped back to the bed, a shard of glass embedded in the ball of her foot. "Fuck, fucking fuck!"

Camille stirred at the cursing. "Are you okay?"

"Just stupid," Emma said. "My booby trap only caught myself." She bent her leg up at an awkward angle, trying to inspect the bottom of her foot. 

Sitting up groggily, Camille leaned over to grab her glasses off the bedside table and take a closer look. "I can get it out," she said. "Hold still." She grasped the piece of glass carefully and before Emma could object, yanked it out. Emma winced as her blood spurted out, and she tried to stanch the flow by grabbing the bedsheet and pressing it to the wound. The red stain blossomed like a flower.

"Next time, warn me first," she complained.

"If I'd warned you first, you would have had time to think about it. It's better just to get some things over with," Camille said. Emma said nothing, just applied more pressure to the cut. With a sigh, Camille got up, carefully scanning the floor so that she could pick her way through a clear path, and went out to the closet. When she returned, she was carrying a broom and dustpan so that she could clean up Emma's mess. As usual. 

"I can do it," Emma protested, feeling a pang of unaccustomed guilt.

"You're bleeding," Camille said as if she was crazy. "I'll do it."

* * *

They stayed up late that night, ordering delivery because neither of them wanted to go back out and get food. Their conversation was desultory, punctuated by long stretches of silence. Camille wandered off to take a shower at one point, leaving Emma to herself. Every sound in the apartment seemed strange to her now, no matter that she'd lived there for years and had only been gone for a little over a week. She made another cup of tea, grimacing a little at the taste but wanting something warm that might settle her stomach. Besides, it was a distraction.

Camille emerged at last, a towel wrapped around her long hair, wearing one of Emma's too-large t-shirts. "The hot water ran out."

"It does that," Emma said. "Especially if you stay in the shower for half an hour."

"I still don't feel clean." Camille came to sit on the couch with her. "Maybe I never will."

Emma bit back the urge to tell her that of course it would get better. It was a platitude - maybe comforting in the moment, but ultimately she couldn't really know. Maybe it was all over. Maybe it was just dormant, lying in wait like bulbs in the cold, dark earth, waiting for spring to wake them again. She had thought it might be over before, and she'd been wrong. 

"What are you going to do?" Camille asked, stirring Emma out of her thoughts. 

"Eat some more of the leftovers from dinner, change the bandage on my foot, and go to bed to have more nightmares, I guess."

"No, I mean from now on. What are you going to do next, with your life?"

That was a much harder question to answer. "All I know how to do is write," Emma said with a shrug. "I want to write something I choose myself, though, and I don't know what that is yet."

Camille nodded. "And... what about the baby? You're not going to keep it, right?"

Emma hesitated. "I don't know. I was thinking... maybe, yes?"

"Emma, you can't," Camille pleaded. "Be reasonable. You would be a single mother, and to a ... a half-demon, a cursed hellspawn or who knows what! Marianne made this happen - she engineered the whole situation to bring this about. You can't let her win!" 

"I don't know what it is, or where it comes from," Emma said stubbornly. "But I know if I let fear of that bitch control my life, then she definitely wins." It had sounded more profound in her head, but she stood by it anyway. "Besides, maybe I wouldn't be a single mother. If I can find someone stupid enough to help me out." She reached over and took Camille's hand in hers.

Camille looked torn, but didn't pull away. "You're not much of a catch," she pointed out. "An alcoholic, no real job, selfish, rude, inconsiderate, doesn't clean up after herself, maybe possessed by a dead witch..."

"Hey, now, that last one isn't fair," Emma protested. "I'm entirely myself right now. And I'm not so self-absorbed and inconsiderate that I can't see who's sacrificed for me and stood by me. Even when they didn't have to - and when I definitely didn't deserve it." 

"You still didn't actually ask me to stay."

"Stay with me, Camille," said Emma. "We'll figure it out as we go. We'll fight off the nightmares for each other."

Camille took a moment to reply, but a little smile graced her lips. "I'll think about it," she finally said.

* * *

_Emma was holding hands with Camille as they walked on the beach barefoot, leaving a trail of footsteps behind. The waves were gentle and the air was salty and fresh. Overhead, the birds cried._

_"What was it like, in the black city?" Emma asked her. It was as casual as asking about where she'd last been on vacation._

_"It was like everything you ever wanted," Camille said after a moment of thought. "Every dream come true. But it was all rotten under the surface. It was like picking a delicious-looking apple and finding it's full of worms. No, worse. Full of pus and... and maggots." She shuddered. "You're the writer - you could probably describe it better than I can."_

_"You can't trust writers, like you can't trust dreams," Emma pointed out. "They both lie to you."_

_"It wasn't a dream." Camille pointed to the sand. Ahead of them, a series of small footprints led off down the shore, stretching further than Emma could see, around the curve of the rocky point of land. "There are her tracks," said Camille. "We can follow them now."_

_Emma looked at them. "We don't have to, though." She pulled at Camille's arm, and they sank to the sand together. "We can just rest here for a while. We don't need to chase her down yet."_

_"You never clean up after yourself," Camille said with a sigh. "But for now, okay. A short rest." She leaned her head against Emma's shoulder and they watched the tide coming in._

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at [naryrising](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/naryrising) if you want to ask questions, make requests, or chat!


End file.
